


Why Won't He Wake Up?

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [12]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Anemic Character, Cold, Don't Read This, Horribly Written, I'm Sorry, Illnesses, Medical Inaccuracies, Other, Protective Ed, Protective Greg, Protective Sam, Sick Spike, Spike Whump, anemia, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike flicked on the lights of his house; tossing his bag with a hazardous throw in the general direction of the door he’d just entered in. He leaned against the kitchen counter, the dizziness that had been chasing him all day starting to take over. His knees were shaking, and his eyes ached from the force of his headache. <br/>The Italian put more of his weight onto his arms, knowing he should call Greg and ask him to come back—but the man had work tomorrow, and Spike didn’t want him to worry. Besides, the older man was right, he just needed some rest. He just needed to get to bed and lay down, he’d be fine in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Won't He Wake Up?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers, welcome to another installment of "Hazel Can't Write". I apologize for how bad this story turned out, I really wanted to write something for this ship--but my muse is wanting to write smut but I want to write angst; it's a struggle. So anyway, I hope you can find some enjoyment out of this and have a great day! I adore feedback, so please feed the author (comments are my favorite, but I love kudos too) so they don't starve to death. Hmm... there's a story idea. ;)
> 
> A/N: I don't own Flashpoint or the characters nor do I make a profit. Please do not post anywhere else, as it is still my writing.

Feverish chills were climbing up his gut, and the temperature in the room kept fluctuating like the waves of the ocean rolling back and forth. Spike hadn’t felt this bad in a while, and he just wanted to curl up and hide but he needed to finish fixing the voice-recording software—the code before him was calming; it wasn’t the desperate race to find information but more of a puzzle that he could take his time with. Besides, Winnie had asked him to fix it and it had been annoying him for a while anyway.

The Barn was dim, the lights on for team 2 but there was no sun spilling light onto the floor like glimmering honey. Keystrokes filled in the silence, and Spike leaned back into the chair as he let the program reboot. The software came alive, and the glitches that had been wreaking havoc slid into an easy improvement. Happy with the results of his work, the bomb tech switched off the computer and silently wished that the next “off duty” job would be fixing Babycakes—it was a lot more fun than retyping code and mending gaps.

Spike rubbed his temples and let his head drop backwards so it rested on the crest of the chair. He blinked; sure his exhausted mind and nauseated body were playing tricks on him, when Greg’s unimpressed face filled up his gaze.

“Why aren’t you home?” The sergeant asked, resting his hands on either side of Spike’s head and leaning over him a little more.

“I could ask you the same question, boss,” Spike deflected, knowing that Greg was reading him like a book—his flushed cheeks, pale skin, and the scratchy timbre of his voice. When Greg didn’t seem to find the humor in Spike’s retort, the bomb tech continued, “I just wanted to fix the voice recording software—it’s been really buggy lately.”

“..Are you sick?” Greg asked, swinging Spike’s chair around so the younger man was facing him and placing the back of his hand against his forehead.

“…No.” Spike tried, but he knew he was busted when Greg pressed his lips together. “Okay, I haven’t felt great the last two days.”

“Come on,” Greg said, pulling Spike out of the chair and into his chest, “Let’s get you home.”

Spike blinked the sleep out of his eyes, grabbing his bag from the floor and went to get his keys from next to the keyboard but Greg snatched them up before his clumsy fingers could curl around the plastic and metal. The bomb tech raised an eyebrow, reaching out to grab them from his sergeant but Greg shook his head and held them out of the constable’s grasp.

“You’re sick; I’m driving,” Greg told him firmly, and Spike didn’t find the energy to argue as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Oh, and you’re not coming in tomorrow.”

Freezing, Spike looked at his boss in confusion.

“But, we’re on shift tomorrow.”

“Yup,” Greg nodded, herding Spike towards the exit to the parking garage, “we are.”

“So that means I need to come in tomorrow,” Spike tried to explain, twisting to meet Greg’s gaze but the sergeant just kept a steady pace towards where the cars were. Greg pulled out his keys, and the bright headlights clicked to life in the dark garage.

“No, you’re sick, so you’re staying home tomorrow. And you’re going to _rest_ ,” Greg stressed, pressing him into the passenger seat, and Spike looked forlornly at his car parked a few spaces away. Greg picked up on the look quickly. “Yeah, you’re not driving home, buddy.”

“I’m not that sick,” Spike tried to reason, but Greg was already buckling himself in and pulling out of the parking spot.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to check up on you, alright?” Greg told him, coasting down the highway towards Spike’s apartment.

“It’s just a cold, boss,” Spike complained, “It’s not worth missing work over.”

“It’ll only get worse if you don’t rest, Spike,” Greg told him, pulling into the bomb tech’s driveway, “Now go sleep, and I’ll send Ed or Sam over with your car tomorrow.”

“You have those meetings after shift tomorrow, right?” Spike asked, opening the car door and starting to step out, and Greg nodded sadly.

“Yeah, but I’ll still call, okay?” The sergeant smiled, leaning over to pat Spike on the shoulder. The bomb tech smiled back, closing the door behind him, and waved as he went to unlock his front door.

Spike flicked on the lights of his house; tossing his bag with a hazardous throw in the general direction of the door he’d just entered in. He leaned against the kitchen counter, the dizziness that had been chasing him all day starting to take over. His knees were shaking, and his eyes ached from the force of his headache.

The Italian put more of his weight onto his arms, knowing he should call Greg and ask him to come back—but the man had work tomorrow, and Spike didn’t want him to worry. Besides, the older man was right, he just needed some rest. He just needed to get to bed and lay down, he’d be fine in the morning.

Taking a few steps away from his support, Spike felt his legs tremble underneath his body, and the muscles refused to accept his weight. He felt like the air was sucked out of his lungs, like the world was spinning and blurring before him. The floor rushed up to greet him, and the bomb tech barely had time to thrust out his arms to soften the fall.

“Ugh,” Spike groaned, black dots dancing his vision, and groped for his phone but it was still sitting on the counter. His stomach was in knots, much worse than before, and he laid his forehead on the linoleum—drinking in the chill of the tile.

“Guess I’ll just sleep here,” Spike grated, closing his eyes and ignoring the blurriness of his vision before doing so. The floor felt blissfully cool under his heated flesh, and the headache dissipated slowly as Spike rolled further into sleep. His body still felt sore, but Spike lied to himself and said it was just from the job—and so was the lethargy that hit him like a train after every shift, at least for the last two days. Once his mind wasn’t focused on the job, he was like this—ready to pass out at a moment’s notice, and wincing as the aches and chills devoured his bones.

God, this cold sucked.

 

* * *

 

Sam frowned, running on the treadmill and waiting for a call with the rest of the team, as he dialed Spike’s phone again. It went straight to voicemail, his lover’s perky voice telling him to leave a message, and Sam pressed the phone tighter against his ear.

“Hey, Spike,” the blonde finally spoke, giving up on redialing over and over without leaving a message, and the team turned their attention to him as they continued their own workouts. “Call me when you get this, okay buddy?”

“He not answering?” Ed asked from across the room where he was showing Jules and Raf a move. “Maybe he’s still sleeping.”

“Well, I did tell him to take it easy and rest,” Greg shrugged, pumping his legs on the bike, “Are you two going to take his car over tonight?”

“Yeah, boss,” Ed answered, grunting as Jules knocked him to the mat. They didn’t talk much after that.

Their shift was easy, with no calls, and Sam switched out of his gear as he tried Spike’s phone again. Still, no response. He kept trying, calling over and over again, and he reached Spike’s house with Ed following along in the car they’d ridden to work in.

“Hey, Spike?” Sam called, opening the door with the key the bomb tech had given him, “Where are you, buddy?”

Sam froze, Ed nearly running into him, as his keys fell from his grasp and he ran to the man on the floor.

“Spike!” the younger sniper shouted, checking for a pulse on his fallen teammate and Ed dialed the emergency services. The pale, clammy skin of Spike made Sam’s hands shake, and he lightly slapped his lover’s cheek as he continued to call out his name. “Come on buddy, wake up.”

“Ambulance is on its way,” Ed said, kneeling on the other side of Spike and leaning down to listen for breath sounds.

“Pulse is a little jumpy, but it’s strong,” Sam said—slipping into his tactical mindset and trying to ignore the fact that one of the loves of his live was laying, pale and dead to the world, at his knees. He just wanted to see the bomb tech’s big, brown eyes, hear his laugh and high-pitched voice. But the man was simply slumped in a pile on the ground, the clothes he’d left the Barn in yesterday still covering his frame. His hair was limp against his head, dark shadows under his eyes. He looked so frail…

“Here,” Ed noticed the panic in Sam’s eyes, and handed his phone over, “call Greg, and drive to the hospital; I’ll go in the ambulance and meet you there.”

Sam stumbled to his feet, heading for the car and trying to remember the directions to the hospital. He clicked Greg’s number, wincing because he knew the man was in meetings, and coughed to try and steady his voice.

The phone rang a couple times, and Sam’s mind faltered as Greg answered the call.

“The meetings are just about to start,” Greg said before Sam could get a word in edge-wise.

“They’re talking Spike to Toronto East General Hospital,” Sam said as evenly as he could, “Ed’s riding in the ambulance—,”

The call ended with a click, and Sam would have slammed his head against the steering column if he wasn’t driving. He pulled into the hospital’s parking lot with his hands clenched so tight on the wheel that they were white—and he walked into the emergency room as the scream of ambulance sirens drew closer.

He took a seat without saying anything, and he heard the wheels of a stretcher roll down the hallway as a male voice directed someone towards the waiting room. Ed’s broad-shouldered form made a bee-line for Sam, slipping into the chair next to him, and squeezed the blonde’s knee.

“They said he’ll be fine, they think it’s just a really bad cold and he’s anemic.”

“Anemic?” Sam asked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

“Would explain the paleness.” Ed told him, and then looked at the doors the younger sniper had come through, “Did you call Greg?”

“Yeah, he was about to go into the meetings but I told him and he hung up.”

“Then he’s probably rushing over here,” the bald man sighed, pulling out his phone to see he had three missed calls from the sergeant.

True to the team leader’s guess, ten minutes later Greg rushed through the door in full SRU gear—everything except for the Kevlar—and looked around frantically. Ed sprung up, putting his hands on the negotiator’s shoulders, and motioned for Sam to head towards the nurse’s desk.

“Greg, hey, look at me,” Ed urged, “Spike’s fine, okay? He just passed out; his iron count was pretty low.” The sniper pressed their foreheads together, and drew back when Greg relaxed.

Sam was busy talking to one of the nurses, and Ed dragged Greg over to a seat.

“He was passed out in the living room,” Ed explained, and Greg listened raptly, “They said they were going to run some tests, but they were sure it was just from a low iron count along with the cold he’s got.”

“God, Ed…” Greg huffed, “I should have stayed with him…He wasn’t feeling good and I just left him at his house.”

“Hey,” the team leader got his attention back, “It’s not your fault, okay?”

Greg nodded, but Ed could tell that the man was just keeping away from the topic for the sniper’s sake.

Sam came back over to them, and hovered in front of the two as they looked up.

“They said we can go back and see Spike,” the blonde told them, taking a step back as the two older men stood up. “They’re giving him an I.V., but as soon as it’s done he can be discharged.”

“Good,” Greg said, “We can all go to my house—unless you guys need to go home.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Ed agreed, and Sam nodded his settlement. They walked off, following a nurse, and soon were standing over Spike with their arms crossed over their chests.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling that bad?” Greg asked, and Spike toyed with the bandage holding the I.V. in place. Sam sat on the foot of the bed, eyes tracking every inch of Spike’s body—looking for anything he could have missed, anything that needed to be fixed and cured.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I felt bad but I hadn’t felt _that_ bad until I was heading to bed and I fell.”

“Well, they said you can leave when the I.V. is done, and you’re staying at Greg’s house tonight.” Ed spoke from where he was watching the youngest member of their relationship.

“Are you all going to be there?” Spike asked hopefully, brown eyes wide and blessedly lucid.

“Yeah, we’re staying the night,” Sam grinned, leaning up the bed so he could peck Spike on the lips, “but all you’re doing is sleeping.”

“What, are you guys going to leave me out of the fun?” Spike joked, a healthy hue slowly starting to creep under his skin but he still looked so pale against the hospital sheets and in the light blue gown.

“Yeah,” Sam smiled, grasping onto Spike’s wrist in a more that was more reassuring to the blonde than the brunette. “Something like that.”

 

* * *

 

Ed carried Spike into the house—to the displeasure of the bomb tech and the absolute pleasure of his other two lovers—bundled in blankets. One of Greg’s hats was covering his short tousled hair, and the negotiator preened at the image. Ed passed through the house, the layout memorized, while never letting his younger lover down.

Spike flopped on the bed as the bald sniper released him, crawling under the sheets, and he shoved his face into Greg’s pillow—inhaling the combined scent of all three of his lovers. The sound of clothing being dropped onto the floor barley registered in Spike’s mind. Ed’s warmth joined him under the sheets, plastering his fit body against the bomb tech’s.

“Make room for us,” Sam’s tired voice echoed through the room and Spike winced but Ed rubbed a hand across the brunette’s stomach in small, comforting circles. The blonde stripped off his shirts and stepped out of his jeans. The door to the bedroom closed just as Sam was slithering into bed, and Spike raised his head just enough to see Greg starting to unbutton his SRU shirt.

Sam kept nudging into Spike’s side, and finally the Italian let himself be manhandled onto the blonde’s chest. Strong arms curled around his frame, and Spike threw one of his thighs over Ed’s hip. Greg, looking exhausted, climbed in next to Sam and Spike reached an arm.

Fingers lightly toying with the older man’s chest hair, Spike soaked in the warmth—and his three lovers tucked the blankets in around his form as they curled up closer together.

“Next time you feel sick,” Ed mumbled, resting his hand on Spike’s thigh, “Tell us, okay?”

Spike nodded and hummed his agreement into Sam’s neck, curling his free arm under the blonde’s neck and drawing himself impossibly closer, mouthing “I love you” into the flesh below his cheek and he felt Sam’s smile from his place below his chin.

“Love you too, Spike,” Sam said with a yawn, Ed and Greg moving closer and sleepily giving their replies. Then, with the room only lit by some moonlight coming into the window, Spike let his breaths get shallower and slower—the exhaustion of the day finally catching up.


End file.
